Hollow

We are empty, it seems
nothing left but our limbs
and the mind to move them.
for all that is in between
falls aside, shallow
like a gaping wound
less used
less used
just the logic that demands
its empty wisdom,
full of thought
yet empty of heart.
We understand
the steps of the dance
and our limbs move
perhaps graceful and slow
or fast and impertinent
but the soul
the soul has died
withered and dried
and our tongue speaks
with ill intent
our arms flail
in whatever direction
we are full of fury
yet we know not why
and we feel that wisdom
lies at our feet
but the words spoken
the promises broken
and the horrors unspoken
we claim unknown.
With long faces
we hold our hands
to our empty chests
and never bother
to beg the question:
what is my purpose?